


Falling into motion

by boopboop



Series: Falling into motion [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Mob, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pixar to the rescue, cliches and more cliches, escort!Sebastian, mob!Chris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 16:52:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/pseuds/boopboop
Summary: Chris laughs, at first. “And what if I have some weird kinky fetish, what then?” He doesn’t, or at least he doesn’t think he does. Do people with weird fetishes even know they have weird fetishes? Does cuddling count?.Inspired by Luninosity & MonstrousRegiment's wonderful Amateur Cartography. Instead of being an artist, Chris is a member of a rival organization. When Sebastian is sent to him on assignment, things go about as well as can be expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts), [MonstrousRegiment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Amateur Cartography](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195877) by [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity), [MonstrousRegiment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment). 



> A million and one thanks to Luninosity & MonstrousRegiment for letting me play in their sandbox. It's a ridiculous amount of fun and it's been wonderful getting to plot things out with you!
> 
> Reading Amateur Cartography is 100% advised if you haven't already, as this story is inspired by the characters and plot and works far better within the context of both. 
> 
> In this version, Sebastian is still very much his father's son, still very much in the business of making people and partners and businessmen happy in some unpleasant ways. Chris however is a member of a rival organization, with all the rough and violent things in life that comes with. 
> 
> The dubious consent tag is for the nature of Sebastian's situation, in which he is aware of and understands what is expected of him but cannot really say no. In this specific story it also refers to a misunderstanding with Chris about what is wanted/expected of him that leads to a horrified Chris and a liberal application of both Pixar movies and fluffy things.

The water is too hot. Sebastian has only been standing under it for five minutes and already his skin is pink and sensitive. He should turn the head down to cool and ease some of the sting. It’s going to take time for color to fade, time before he’s ready to step out into the evening.

He leaves it running hot. Makes sure he is clean, inside and out, and rubs expensive conditioner into his hair. He’s just had it trimmed, harder now for fingers to tighten and hold and pull. Harder, but not impossible. He’s too vain to shave it all off, and there’s something in the way his mama brushes stray strands off his forehead that he can’t ever give up.

After ten minutes there is a polite but unavoidable knock on the bathroom door. Right. His assignment. That’s a nice way of putting it. It’s an assignment. A meeting. Not a party. Something intimate, just him and his host. He’s had worse nights. He’s had worse nights this week.

When he steps out of the bathroom there is no one in his bedroom, but he can hear the sound of footsteps beyond the door. He’s running late.

Toweling his hair dry, he wanders the length of his closet: substantial and expensive and containing very little in the way of clothing he himself has picked out. Each rack holds gifts from designers. From admirers. From men and women who like to think themselves his lovers. He runs his fingers across exquisite fabrics and tries to think what his assignment will like.

Here is what he knows: Chris Evans is not much older than he is himself, but in his short career as an enforcer up in Boston, he has cemented himself a reputation for coolly ruthless violence. He's got a fearsome track record, but he doesn’t run things; that dubious honor belongs to a woman of seventy-eight who controls an empire from her rocking chair. Even Sebastian's father doesn’t fuck around with Siobhan. Now her favorite young captain is in town to talk business and every effort is being made, both to cater to and impress him. Hence Sebastian. Hence debates about what kind of toy Chris Evans might want for the evening. A debauched night time prince in black leather and silk? Or something sweet and innocent and corruptible? He settles on something that can be either: black slim cut pants; a crisp white shirt; his lips bitten and worried to a flush red. Seductive or nervous, whichever Chris Evans wants. No one really knows, and while it’s always fun to ask Sebastian’s father what kind of whore he wants his son to be today, he rarely gets much of an answer. Sebastian has to guess.

There are a lot of rumors about Chris. None that say he’s sadistic or overly fond of drawing that violence out, but still plenty that paints a very vivid picture of the kind of man Sebastian is giving himself to. A gift. A goodwill gesture to the visiting captain who has earned the respect of his peers and his enemies alike. Sebastian is going to make Chris feel welcome in his father’s city. And, if he happens to hear anything useful….

He is good at hearing useful things. Even better at making sure those useful things get said in the first place. If Chris Evans is anything like his reputation then Sebastian knows exactly how to coax useful things out of him.

His hair is dry by the time he finishes dressing.

“ _Alteţă?”_ The knock on the door is firm and assertive, like Nikolaj on the other side of it. Sebastian doesn’t bother answering. After a moment there is a curt “thirty minutes,” from the other side.

Those thirty minutes get spent in front of a mirror, his reflection looking back at him, wide-eyed and tired. He has the benefit of youth on his side, but eventually that tiredness is going to start to show on his face. He wonders if that will make him less or more valuable and supposes that it depends on the person he is with.

A breath away from when he knows Nikolaj will make another impatient knock at his door, Sebastian throws it open and meets the eyes of his head bodyguard with a look of beguiling innocence.

Nikolaj snorts and rolls his eyes. “Save it for the American,” he says, holding the back door of the car open once they make it outside his apartment. Sebastian is surprised to see Augusto, Nikolaj's second in command, climb in behind the wheel. He knows his father has already sent men over to meet with Chris Evans and the men he has brought with him from Boston. The extra bodies are a show of strength, but he can't imagine why Augusto is here, with him, and not already in place looking big and intimidating.

His father really is pulling out all the stops this time.

Sebastian figures he better not disappoint him. 

 

* * *

 

There is a passive aggressive staring contest unfolding in the large communal area of the converted warehouse that has been bought for the purpose of this trip. The upstairs has been converted into a stylish loft apartment and downstairs split into offices and a large social space. It’s fitted with all the necessary features: wet bar, pool table, tables and chairs, lazy couches, huge tv screens with all the sports channels and a soundproofed room out the back for less savory business practices.

Chris’s boss now owns the entire block. Being in what essentially classes as enemy territory is doing nothing to dim the suspicious glares being directed at them. The three Romanian behemoths are stereotypically intimidating and have probably been sent for this very reason.

With the exception of Dominic, the men Chris has brought with him tick all the same criteria: large, unfriendly, prone to breaking furniture. Often over people’s heads.

“This is not awkward. At all.”

“Is there some kind of…I don’t know…etiquette? For this kind of thing? Should we be offering vodka or something?”

Dom, short and scrappy and Chris’s age, rolls his eyes with painful despair. “That’s a shameful stereotype. Besides, they are Romanian. They probably drink _țuică_. It’s made from plums, in case you were wondering.”

“I… really wasn’t. Why do you know that?” Dom tends to soak up random bits of information like a sponge. It makes him great in quizzes and a massive pain in the ass outside of them.

“Why would I not know how our Eastern European friends make their illegal booze? It’s illegal booze, man.”

There is a brief commotion by the bar as the merits between single malt and blend deviate into a shoving contest. Sharp blades are drawn before the two combatants remember they are brothers, and that their mother will strangle either of them if they return home without the other.

The men belonging to Marcus, head of the Romanian clan currently controlling the majority of the city, all tense.

“It’s all good!” Chris shouts, trying to look and sound reassuring. “No one is going to stab anyone, are they, fellas?”

Chris’s men by the bar grunt and glare at each other, then throw identically remorseful looks in Chris’s direction. Chris doesn’t believe them for a second.

Eventually, the man mountains relax again. If you can call what they have been doing all evening ‘relaxing’.

Siobhan doesn’t have any living children, but Chris would likely be just as tense if he were in charge of the safety of any of her family.

This is a terrible idea, isn’t it?

“Not much longer now,” Dom bounces in anticipation.

“How is it you are more excited about me having sex than I am?” Chris wonders aloud. Dom doesn’t disappoint, returning from the bar with a beer in hand and a lecherous grin fixed firmly in place.

“Because you are so tragically undersexed that you have probably forgotten which bits go where,” Dom says. “Because one of us needs to be excited about something, and because you are literally about to ‘ _Live The Dream’_ ,” he makes awkward air quotes with one hand and struggles not to spill his drink.

“Right.”

“It’s a fucking travesty,” Dom sighs. “You’re gonna be going nuts to guts with our generation’s answer to Mata Hari and you look like someone’s just pissed in your Guinness.”

Chris can’t stop his nose from wrinkling, “Nuts to… this is why you can’t keep a girlfriend, you know that? And wasn’t Mata Hari a spy?” Whose head ended up in embalming fluid. Of course, he is under no illusion that Marcus’s son isn’t a spy…

“You’re missing the point,” Dom says, dramatically hand-waving away the comment on his own love life, as he is often likely to do when he doesn’t like the topic of conversation, or he thinks he can get in another few digs at Chris’s expense.  “Which is that you are about to have sex with _Sebastian_ ,” he says the name like you might say Adele or Beyonce or fucking _Jesus_ , “and if you can’t appreciate an ass that could not only satisfy an entire Russian death squad but end up on their fucking Christmas card list afterwards then I am sorry, but we can’t be friends anymore.”

“We aren’t friends now,” Chris points out, “and I refuse to believe that Russian assassins send Christmas cards.” He gets lost in a mental meandering of what _kind_ of Christmas cards said assassins might chose, then wonders if there is any legitimate way to raise that in conversation the next time he sees Alexi and Yasen, the two Russian enforcers he sometimes encounters when it becomes necessary for Siobhan to take meetings with Sergei Golodayev.

Siobhan’s equal in the Bratva is as elderly as she is and rarely leaves Russia. Golodayev is the highest ranking of his Brigadiers, his standing equal to that of Chris’s, though at almost twenty years younger Chris ends up getting his hands dirty a whole lot more than Golodayev probably does these days.

He glances down at the hand he has curled around his pint glass: split knuckles are still healing from the face he broke them against. He’d like to think the people he hits deserve it, but by this point it’s almost impossible to consider himself an impartial judge of character.

He wonders if Sebastian will notice. He wonders what Sebastian will think.

Chris has twenty-four hours to find out.

 

* * *

 

The meeting place is outside of Sebastian’s father’s territory, but they have people at every level of the city in their pockets. Nikolaj has carried out all kinds of paranoid security checks before approving the location. Sebastian knows he is unhappy about the assignment. He never cares who Sebastian spends his nights with, but when there are rumors circulating of mutiny within Siobhan’s ranks, the potential of them getting caught up in another organization’s infighting means Nikolaj has to do twice the work. Things like that irritate him.

Used to being the subject of that irritation, Sebastian takes note of his bodyguard’s tense jaw and rigid posture when he opens the door at their destination.

“We are supposed to be making friends,” Sebastian reminds him. “Try look like you don’t want to murder someone.”

“You’ll do a good enough job of making friends, I am sure,” Nikolaj says stiffly. Sebastian doesn’t flinch at the distaste in his voice. Sometimes he wonders what Nikolaj did to make his father punish him with Sebastian. He’s smart, and he’s good at scaring the shit out of people: he can rise a lot higher in the organization if he’s not saddled with Sebastian.

“Do I ever not?”

The building they have arrived at is a large and newly renovated commercial building, right in the heart of the city. It’s a very respectable place for business.

“These men are not like the Russians,” Nikolaj says. “Or the Chinese.”

“I should think not,” Sebastian replies.

“They are…” Nikolaj chews on his words, then pulls his mouth into a scowl and finishes, “odd. You will not do anything foolish.” The words ‘this time’ are heavily implied.

“It doesn’t matter where they are from,” Sebastian points out, the sharp chill in the evening air making him wish he’d brought a jacket, “get them naked and they are all the same.”

The look on Nikolaj’s face could curdle milk, but he says nothing else. There isn’t really much he _can_ say, not without stepping over that line of professionalism that is so important to him.

 

* * *

 

The door opens and almost immediately Chris understands why this town is no longer run by the Chinese or the Italians or even the Russians. There’s a peace here that’s been hard fought over and, if rumors are true, it’s a peace won almost exclusively with the help of Sebastian. The man standing in the doorway is lovely in ways that makes Chris ache to put pencil to paper and commit the memory of him to eternity. Lovely in ways that wakes a part of Chris that has been dormant for so many years now. All the parts of him that are flung around as drunken boasts and playful, longing banter – his wide, pretty eyes and that lush, sinful mouth; long, elegant legs; a throat that begs for bruises – don’t do the breathtakingly beautiful whole of him justice. He’s the kind of perfection that brings a room to silence, and he has.

Chris is, well… he’s been amused, wholly, by the idea. By Sebastian, who has not achieved what he has just by being pretty. And Chris likes smart. He really likes smart. He’s been looking forward to battling with wits and not fists for once, his guard up around those beguiling eyes. And of course he likes sex. Sex is great. Enthusiastic and fun and he doesn’t have nearly enough of it, not now he’s learned to anticipate hidden lies and even more well-hidden knives. The promise of Sebastian is the promise of some no strings attached fun between two heirs of two very dangerous groups of people.

Chris is, categorically speaking, dumb as pig shit. There is going to be nothing fun about this.

Okay, a lie. There is going to be a lot of fun, but if Sebastian bites his lip like that again, Chris will tell him everything – business deals, manufacturing arrangements, stolen Death Star plans- anything to convince him to pry those lovely lips from between his teeth and wrap them around Chris’s dick instead.

He’s fucked. Royally.

He says as much to Dom, his gaze unwavering. Dom nods, slightly dumbstruck.

“Totally,” he agrees.

The men who belong to Sebastian’s father grow another four inches in the presence of their charge, who stops an arm's length away from Chris and smiles.

“Hi,” Chris says, picking his jaw up off the floor. “I’m gorgeous, you’re Chris. I mean, you’re beautiful, I’m gorgeous. No, no, I’m _Chris, oh fuck me…_ ” Is it possible to die of utter mortification? If not, is it too much to ask one of the many people who want him dead to maybe make their attempts now? He won’t even put up a fight.

“You _are_ gorgeous,” Sebastian isn’t laughing at him – he’s clearly too polite for that, but he _is_ smiling and that kills what few of Chris’s brain cells have survived his arrival, “and I have been asked to call people far stranger things before. Should I start by getting us a drink?” He inclines his head gracefully towards the fully stocked wet bar by the far wall.

“Alcohol would be amazing right now. Or maybe cyanide.” He’s in no way imagining the utter disgust and disdain on the faces of Sebastian’s bodyguards. He shrugs his shoulders helplessly; surely they have seen people do and say worse around him?

Sebastian flashes him a sweetly teasing smile and Chris’s brain freezes in the middle of its reboot. “Poison isn’t my style.”

Why bother when he can just bat those enormous eyes of his and morons like Chris will gladly walk off the edge of a building for him? Sebastian is dangerous. Dangerous in whole new ways he has not considered before.

The room falls suspicious silent as Sebastian heads towards the bar. He moves like a dancer: elegant and artful, seizing the attention of everyone in his orbit and holding it with effortless ease. He’s all sweet smiles and elegant poise as he orders drinks for them. Sebastian’s guards respectfully avert their eyes; Chris’s boys stare like the fucking morons they all are.

Chris wonders if he is uncomfortable, being stared at like he is.

When Sebastian returns, Chris takes a glass from him. “Upstairs?” he suggests, loudly adding, “It’s a bit more private.” The switch flips and conversations begin again in loud, overcompensating earnest.

Still, Sebastian lets Chris lead him up the stairs into the loft.

The bodyguards don’t follow them inside, no doubt convinced that Chris doesn’t possess the brain cells to actually be a threat to their charge. The grumpiest looking one puts his back pointedly to the door and glares as it closes, and now it is just the two of them in the apartment, the bed across the open plan room practically flashing like a beacon.

“Did you want ice?” Sebastian has somehow picked out Chris’s favorite whiskey from the selection on the bar. Sebastian is magical. Sebastian is perfect.

“No, thank you,” Chris manages not to choke on his tongue and swallows the drink so quickly it burns all the way down. “No ice. Ice is bad. Just ask the Titanic.”

Yes, he actually just said that out loud.

Sebastian blinks. “Are you nervous?” he asks, kinder now, his long, elegant hands coming up to rest on Chris’s shoulders, quick to soothe him. “I don’t bite.” Something playful peeks out from behind that gentle warmth. “Unless you would like me to.”

The sound Chris makes is untranslatable. One of Sebastian’s hands makes it’s way up to Chris’s collar, his throat, his lips. Chris can taste the salt of his skin and the featherlight touch is maddening. “Or would you rather bite me instead?”

His eyes are drawn inescapably to Sebastian’s neck, slender and pale. Chris isn’t a possessive man, but for a second he imagines biting a bruise into that flawless skin, right above the open collar of his shirt. No hiding that.

“I… yes. Please.” He wants to draw Sebastian’s fingers into his mouth. He wants to kiss his wrist and yes, he wants to bite, just a little. Nothing painful.

“Are you always this polite in the bedroom?” Sebastian asks, gently drawing Chris closer as he tilts his head. Throat bared. Untouched flesh laid open to be claimed.

“Manners,” Chris whispers, his lips only a breath away from Sebastian’s neck, “cost nothing.” He stops himself. Draws back. “I haven’t even let you finish your drink,” he’s not even sure where Sebastian put it, but it’s not in his hands anymore, “I’m a terrible host. Let me just-”

A step back. A moment. Just a little bit of time to breathe before he forgets himself altogether and does a whole lot more than just kiss marks into Sebastian’s skin.

Hurrying over to the bar in the kitchen, he makes them more drinks. More alcohol is necessary if he doesn’t want to humiliate himself even further.

But.

By the time he comes back Sebastian has somehow and most unobtrusively, removed all of his own clothing. Now he stands before Chris, naked and shameless.  Miles of pale skin, and for a second Chris entertains a fantasy of keeping him that way, not just for tonight, but forever. To sit at his feet, sweet and lovely and proud. The royal whore. That is… that is what they call him, isn't it? He can see how the title has stuck. Chris pulls himself out of the fantasy, angry with himself. Sebastian deserves more respect from the world, but especially from Chris.

“I’m feeling a little overdressed,” Chris says, the joke a way of masking the sudden nerves that have arisen at the sight of Sebastian naked. Of course, they aren’t all that has risen. It’s good to know that even after all this time his dick still knows exactly how to respond to beautiful naked men.

Sebastian runs a finger down the edge of his jacket and pushes the fabric back over his shoulders. “I can help with that,” he offers, taking the drinks from Chris’s hands and setting them aside on the table by the bed.

His throat dry, Chris swallows. “I’m sure you can. Very helpful. Very-“ nimble fingers slide under his shirt, bunching fabric.

“Hmmm?”

Chris runs a tentative finger down the line of Sebastian’s sternum. He indulges his imagination for a second – thinks about his fantasies and how Sebastian might fit into them. That’s a pretty picture. A very pretty picture. He’s out of his shirt before he can start to settle on any details and the press of Sebastian’s skin against his own burns like whiskey.

It’s been a long time - too long - since Chris really kissed someone. Either Sebastian doesn’t mind the rustiness or he doesn’t care. He opens up beneath Chris’s mouth, a pretty moan caught between their lips and Chris forgets all the reasons he’s had for caution.

Kissing Sebastian is perfect. It’s stardust and moonlight and buttermint sweetness on his tongue. It’s that slim body pressed against his own, Sebastian’s hands as light as butterflies resting against Chris’s arms as Chris slips fingers into dark hair and takes them both deeper.

Sebastian seems happy to let Chris set the pace, gracefully guiding them both towards the bed. The back of his knees hit crimson sheets and the world falls away. Chris doesn’t remove his fingers from Sebastian’s hair as he lowers him onto the mattress. Sebastian is beautiful and deserves every fiber of gentleness Chris has left in his body.

His jeans are uncomfortable and tight, but Chris is in no rush to move things along any faster than they are already progressing. They have all night and he wants to kiss every inch of silken skin. He wants to hear Sebastian moan with pleasure. He wants to know what Sebastian looks like when he’s trembling and lost to the feel of Chris’s hands.

He wants. God, he _wants_.

“How do you…” he pulls himself away from the perfection that is Sebastian’s mouth and raises himself up on his arms, careful not to rest too much weight on the body beneath his. “What do you like?” He wants to hear all of it. They have time, yes, but Chris wants to make Sebastian sing _now_. Does he like his nipples played with? Does he like it when people tease him to hardness and take their time to make him come undone? Does he like it when people put their mouths on his ass and open him up with their tongues until he’s slick and open and squirming for more?

Chris really hopes it’s a yes to all the above. He’s got the most perfect little nipples and his cock is thick and heavy and perfect and his ass… god, his ass is perfect too.

Vocabulary is one of the first things he loses when he’s turned on.

Sebastian, with his eyes closed and his long limbs sprawled out in supplication, writhes beneath him. “Anything you want,” he says. “Everything.”

Chris laughs, at first. “And what if I have some weird kinky fetish, what then?” He doesn’t, or at least he doesn’t think he does. Do people with weird fetishes _know_ they have weird fetishes? Does cuddling count?

“Anything,” Sebastian says. “I’m yours.”

They are exactly the words anyone in Chris’s position wants to hear. Anyone who doesn’t do what Chris does. Who hasn’t seen what Chris has seen.

He pushes himself upright, kneeling above Sebastian now, his voice echoing as cold in his ears as the blood in his veins suddenly feels. “Anything?”

 

* * *

 

Sebastian has miscalculated. Usually so much better at reading people, he’s let himself be drawn in by the sweet, polite, almost reverent enchantment that Chris Evans has been exuding and he’s ignored all the most important signals he should pick up on.

He knows what a lot of the tattoos on Chris’s chest mean. He knows what the broken skin on Chris’s knuckles means. He knows what men in Chris’s position - young men looking to cement the power they are only just learning to exert on the world - want.

The look in his eyes when he looms over Sebastian is as cold as his voice. “Anything?” Chris says, and Sebastian tries not to shiver.

“Of course,” he says, trying to sit up until a large hand pushes him firmly back onto the mattress.

He goes down and stays obediently still.

Chris makes a disgusted sound as he climbs off Sebastian and stalks over to the bar. He picks up a bottle, unscrews the cap and then stares at the contents for several long moments before setting it down again, the liquid inside untouched. “And when you say anything…”

Sebastian stays down as ordered, but turns over on his side, showing Chris everything he has to offer. “Whatever you want,” Sebastian says again. It’s rare he’s required to spell it out. He’s coaxed and encouraged before, but mostly he’s expected to do what he is told when he is told. It’s always obvious when someone wants obedience and submission, or when they want him to be bratty and in need of correction. It’s easier that way. He knows what is expected of him.

He doesn’t know what Chris wants. He doesn’t think even Chris knows what he wants.

“If I want to bite you then, really bite you?” Chris questions.

Sebastian arches his neck, bares his throat again in encouragement. “Everyone would know you’d had me,” he whispers. “When I leave tomorrow, all your men, all my father’s men… they’ll know you’ve had what they never can.”

Chris shivers and Sebastian bites his lip coyly. That’s better.

“What if I wanted to hit you?”

Sebastian pauses, frowning. “Like, spanking? Or with your fists?”

He can see the muscles work in Chris’s jaw and firmly locks his unease behind an understanding smile when Chris says, “Either. Both.”

“Well I’d rather you didn’t hit me in the face, but it’s not a deal breaker if that’s what you want. And I happen to like it when big, strong men throw me over their knee and spank me until I cry. You have the perfect hands for it, god.” He squirms on the sheets and watches as Chris clenches his fists in response.

“Not a deal breaker?” Chris sounds angry now and for the first time, Sebastian is genuinely afraid of him. He cringes at his own choice of words and wonders when he let himself get so sloppy. It would be so much easier if he could close the gap between them if he could distract Chris with the touch of his hands and the promise of all the things he wants, but he’s only been given one instruction tonight and that is to stay on the bed where he’s been put. He can’t disobey. “Is that what this is? A deal?”

“Of course not,” Sebastian whispers. He’s played coy and that’s not worked. He’s been playful and teasing and Chris has responded to a point, but there is clearly something more he wants. Something he’s expecting Sebastian to pick up on and run with. “I’m yours, remember? If that’s what you want, I want it too. Or...” Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what Chris is wanting but doesn’t know how to ask for. It _is_ his first time. “I won’t like it. It’ll hurt, and I’ll cry and I won’t be able to stop you. Maybe you’ll tie me down, but you don’t have to. You’re so strong. You’ll make me take it. Take you. Even when I beg you to stop. Please, Chris….” He’s talking about so much more than Chris hitting him and they both know it. Sebastian knows he’s struck his target when Chris’s eyes turn almost black - a shark scenting blood.

“You’d beg me to stop,” he says, his voice so low now Sebastian almost can’t hear him. “You’ll cry and you’ll try and fight me off and I still get to have you.” Sebastian only nods, already cringing back into the pillows in a way that is only half an act. Chris is stalking over from the bar towards him, violence in every line of his body. He stops himself a foot from the bed but is shaking with the restraint. “What about your bodyguard? Is that what this is? Some kind of set up your father planned? Is he going to come in here and shoot me the second I put my dick in you?”

Sebastian jerks up in surprise. “What? No! Of course not!” Though he supposes that if Sebastian’s father ever really wants to go to war with someone, it’s a good enough excuse to use.

“So your bodyguard, your protection, is just going to stand outside while you’re crying and begging me not to hurt you?”

That’s not what Nikolaj is there for, not really, but it’s hard to explain. “Well you aren’t supposed to _really_ hurt me,” Sebastian allows. “Nothing permanent, anyway. He’d come in if you went too far, but no. You can do all that. More, if you want. He won’t stop you. I won’t stop you.”

Chris is still scowling, still furious, and Sebastian doesn’t know how to fix it.

“You think you _could_ stop me?” Chris snarls. “If I wanted to do those things to you.”

Sebastian doesn’t need to look at those muscles. He doesn’t need to know Chris’s reputation for violence. He shakes his head meekly, whispers, “No.”

“So it wouldn’t be a game then, would it? It would be real, and he still wouldn’t come in and stop it.”

Sebastian lies back down and closes his eyes. The only way he knows of that will bring Nikolaj in to stop things is if Sebastian actually calls for him. He can’t do that now. He won’t.

Nikolaj knows it.

Sebastian knows it.

And now Chris Evans does as well.

 

* * *

 

Chris is… stuck. There’s no getting around the words Sebastian has said, nor the meaning behind them. For all that he’s beautifully, exquisitely skilled at pretending otherwise, there is no possible way Sebastian is here of his own choosing. It doesn’t matter if he is being blackmailed or bribed or coerced or simply doesn’t feel he has a choice one way or another.

Chris isn’t that kind of man. He’s a lot of terrible things, but not that.

But stuck seems to be the best way to describe it.

Stuck, and horrified. Sickened.

Whatever else he is, Sebastian is Marcus’s son. He might be a gift – the word sticks in his throat this time – to a respected rival, but he’s also a spy. He will report back on what he learns in this room, and under no circumstances can one of those topics be Chris’s refusal to fuck him.

Aside from the fact that it makes Chris look weak, he is also, essentially, saying that Sebastian is not good enough for him. He is throwing the gift given back in Marcus’s face.

Wars have started over less.

And then there is the question of Sebastian himself. If his father is cold enough to offer him up like a party favor then what will he do to Sebastian if he fails? Will he hurt him? Chris can’t risk that. He won’t. He doubts very much that Sebastian is innocent in many things, but he is innocent in this. Chris will protect him if he can.  

The question is simply… what kind of an asshole is he? Is he the kind that has sex with an unwilling partner? Or is he the kind who allows said partner to be hurt for failing to seduce him? Or is he the kind who allows incalculable violence to tear this city and his own apart because he is incapable of playing the game the way it needs to be played?

There is something painfully ridiculous about the fact that in trying to do the right thing, he’s going to fuck up either way.

He needs to make a choice. He can’t leave Sebastian on the bed for much longer. He’s supine still, long limbs spread out like a sacrificial offering – there for Chris to take. He’s starting to stir, to turn on his side and flash Chris a look that would be enticing if Chris could see anything other than the wrongness of this all. Instead, he looks nervous. Nervous and afraid. Of Chris. Of what Chris might do to him. Of reputations of blood and violence and a different kind of submission forced at the edge of a blade and the strike of a fist.

It doesn’t help, Chris realizes, that he’s standing there, those same fists clenched, looking like he’s about to wade into a fight and beat the crap out of anyone who gets in his way. Of course Sebastian is afraid of him.

He steps back and takes a breath. Forces himself to be calm. Tries not to terrify Sebastian more than he already has.

And tries not to throw open the apartment door and demand to know what kind of fucked up operation Marcus is running. What kind of a man pimps out his only son to the kind of people who are willing to take the kind of liberties Sebastian is offering?

Bad men, obviously. The kind of men he tries very hard not to be like.

Ok, so. Plan. Of attack. Or action, not attack. He’s not attacking anything or anyone, least of all the frightened son of a man who has just placed himself at the top of Chris’s This Guy Is Evil list.

Rushing into the bathroom, he grabs the oversized fluffy robe off the back of the door. He pulls it too hard, catches the belt on the handle and then nearly falls over his own feet in an effort to untangle the combination of fabric and limbs.

By the time he makes it back to the bed, Sebastian is sitting upright. He has his arms wrapped around his knees and Chris wants nothing more than to hug him until he stops looking so brittle and wary.

Since physical contact of any kind is out of the question, he settles for draping the fluffy robe around Sebastian’s shoulders instead.

“Put that on,” he says. Realizing that the plea sounds like more of an order, he softens his expression and adds, “Please?”

Sebastian already has one arm inside the robe. He hesitates at the please, then wraps the thick fabric around himself and fastens the belt. The robe is big on Chris: it swamps Sebastian.

Chris beams at him. “I mean, you can put your clothes on if you want, but they don’t look so cozy and I don’t actually have any spare pjs because I sleep naked. Not that I will be. Tonight. Sleeping. Or naked.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Sebastian asks. His voice is even, but Chris reads the ripple of fear lurking beneath the surface. When his gaze darts to the door, Chris has to force himself not to march outside and get into a fight. Bodyguards can’t report back on sex, or lack of sex, if they are unconscious.

“Nope. How’d you feel about Disney?”

The question catches Sebastian by surprise. “Disney?”

On the far side of the loft there are plush couches, mountains of cushions, and the fucking epic entertainment system. He leads Sebastian over and encourages him to make space for himself, which he does, but not without a look that suggests he thinks Chris has lost his mind.

“Disney,” he says firmly. When Sebastian is settled, long limbs curled up gracefully, surrounded by soft, comfortable things, Chris throws himself down into an armchair and waves the remote cheerfully over his head.

“Do you like Disney or not?”

“I am apathetic about Disney,” Sebastian responds cautiously.

“That’s terrible. You’re terrible. What about Pixar?” He’s trying so hard to divert the night away from sex and impossible consent and all the things he knows he’s going to get shit for not doing. Sebastian still flinches though, and Chris can’t bring himself to ignore it. “I didn’t mean _terrible_ , terrible. You’re not. You’re wonderful. And lovely. I liked kissing you a lot, and I am pretty sure I am going to like spending the next day with you, but. I’m not stupid. Not smart, maybe, but not stupid. And I make it a principle of mine to only sleep with people who can say no to me. Which, you can’t. Not your fault.”

The bewildered, disbelieving look on Sebastian’s face is the first real expression Chris thinks he has seen from him all night. It makes him smile. Gently. Softly.

“I’m not going to touch you, Sebastian,” Chris says. “You can leave if you want, but if that’s going to get you in trouble then you can stay until tomorrow night as planned. And when you go, you can tell your father whatever you want - that we fucked, that we didn’t, that I snore or hog the sheets or whatever. Anything you need to tell him to convince him we did what he wants you to do. I’ll back you up.”

Siobhan is going to kill him. If she doesn’t, there are a dozen of his peers who would give their left nut for a night with Sebastian: they’ll kill him for wasting his chance. For being weak.

Sebastian clutches the edge of the robe and Chris can’t bring himself to care. Sebastian hasn’t tried to deny that fact that he has no choice in being there. It’s not just subtext, Chris knows. It’s bold print, underlined and flashing like a badly designed myspace profile banner.

“I’ll stay,” Sebastian says, admitting more in that short sentence than just a flimsy trust in Chris’s promise not to hurt him. “But Disney?”

“Or Pixar,” Chris reminds him. The look he gets in response is withering. “What’s your opinion on superheroes?”

“They make poor life choices,” Sebastian says. “And poor fashion choices.”

Chris clutches the remote to his chest in glee. “Okay, okay, I know what we need to watch. You’re gonna love it.” He flicks through the database of movies, all the while tracking the rise of a very incredulous eyebrow.

They watch _The Incredibles_. Sebastian looks no more relaxed by the end of it, but neither is he eying Chris with the resigned expectation of pain.

He offers Sebastian a drink, sticking to either water or soda, two things the fridge is stocked with and the only liquids that are sealed. Sebastian takes a bottle of water when offered, his fingers curling around the lid and a little more of that wariness loosening when the seal makes a pop as he opens it.

After _Cars_ \- an underrated classic, in Chris’s opinion - he makes Dom order them pizza.

“Seriously, you have no preferences?” Chris can’t help but sound dismayed as he tries to gently nudge a choice out of Sebastian, who having uncurled himself on the couch by excruciating degrees, manages to look both unimpressed and amused at the same time.

“Do I look like someone who eats a lot of pizza?” he asks. Which, no. There’s entirely not enough of him at all.

Which he says. “All the more reason. You’ve not eaten anything since you got here,” and for who knows how long before that, “and I am not about to let you starve to death on my watch. Pretty sure that classes as ‘permanent harm’.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes in faux-anguish. “Pepperoni,” he says. “Crispy base.”

“Done and done!” He texts Dom. The response he gets is crude and full of innuendos about keeping up their strength. On any other day, Chris might laugh at it.

“Do you actually intend to spend the entire weekend eating junk food and watching cartoons?” The question Sebastian asks is lined with judgement and an unhealthy amount of weary cynicism from someone who isn’t even as old as Chris is.

He knows - _thinks_ , Jesus - that Sebastian is over eighteen, but it can’t be by much.

“First of all: pizza is an integral part of the food pyramid,” Chris has had this argument more times than he can count: he’s got all his bases covered, “and second of all: it’s animation, not cartoons.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “There is literally no difference.”

Chris’s hand clutches at his chest, pained. “No difference, no diff-” but then he catches a glimpse of something new in Sebastian’s expression. “You’re fucking with me.”

It’s a smile, small and uncertain and real. Beautiful. “Perhaps. A little.”

“You’re awesome,” Chris sighs, well aware of how ridiculous he sounds. “Nobody fucks with me anymore. Not even Dom.” They’ll tease him, laugh with him, but there is an invisible line in the sand that is never crossed.

“You do have something of a reputation,” Sebastian says kindly. “And they respect you too much to assume informalities.”

Fear and respect, that’s about it.

“What about you?” Chris asks, knowing how unfair he is being when Sebastian has only just untucked himself from the protective ball he’s been sat in all night.

He expects nothing more than a platitude. Some well-rehearsed answer designed to appease his ego. Instead, Sebastian takes his time, bottom lip worried between sharp white teeth before he lets out a sigh. “I think that any man who enjoys _animation_ as much as you do is either psychologically unhinged or is not, perhaps, quite as fearsome as he might allow others to believe him to be.”

That, Chris thinks, might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him since he picked up a gun that first time.

“Not quite as fearsome,” he repeats, unable to fight back his growing smile. It’s echoed, tentatively, from the other couch. “I can work with that.”

“Or psychologically unhinged,” Sebastian reminds him.

Chris shrugs his shoulders. “Watch _A Bug’s Life_ with me before you make up your mind?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Sebastian says. It’s lightly teasing, but they both know that there is more to the words than just a good-natured jibe. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“So’s yours,” Chris promises. “You have my word.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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